


you were never on your own

by alongthewatchtower



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, M/M, Self-cest, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 12:06:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1744109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alongthewatchtower/pseuds/alongthewatchtower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen-year-old Niall wakes up in a hotel room he's never seen, but the weirdest thing isn't the exit instructions in Spanish, or the suitcase full of clothes that aren't his, or the fact that it sounds like there's some kind of riot going on outside - no.</p><p>The weirdest thing is the <i>man</i> standing in the doorway, blonde and Irish and very, very familiar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11.49pm, April 23, 2014.

**Author's Note:**

> Time-travel AU. Mainly an excuse for (eventual) smut and size kink like whoa. Shameless POV-switching, apologies for the confusion, because they're both Niall.

Niall startles awake, in semi-darkness, in a room he’s never seen before.

 

The bed underneath him is way, way bigger than his bunk - bigger than any bed he’s ever been in, and he’s completely alone, no restless Louis thrashing in his sleep, none of Liam’s snuffling little half-snores. 

 

He realises instantly what’s woken him up. There’s a strange humming noise that comes in waves. Niall concentrates and realises it’s screaming. Somebody - more than one somebody, it sounds like, is screaming. Is there riots going on outside?

 

Niall stumbles to the window, tripping over someone’s shoes in the dark. He pulls the curtains aside to look out on a completely unfamiliar city. The noise - the  _roar_ , seems to have no source, he can’t see where all that screaming is coming from, and the street below is deserted, almost like it’s been closed. There’s another hotel opposite - actually, pretty much all he can see is hotels.

 

Where the fuck is he, and where are the rest of the boys?

 

Niall clearly remembers falling asleep in his bunk at the X-Factor house. He remembers lying awake, still buzzing with post-show adrenaline, the elation of surviving their fifth week of the competition and being one step closer to winning. In the light from the city outside, Niall can see the outline of a suitcase. It’s not his. The hotel room seems giant, way bigger than any he’s ever seen in real life. There’s a laptop open on the bed, and the screensaver says -  _holy fucking fuck_.

 

The screensaver says  _11.49pm, April_ 2 _3,_ 2 _014._  


No fucking way.

 

There’s the sound of a keycard at the hotel room door, and Niall freezes as it swings open and someone dumps a bag inside.

 

“Hello?” 

 

The man standing in the doorway is Irish, at least. 

 

“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he says, sounding tired.

 

  
_No shit,_  Niall thinks, frozen.

 

“I’m calling security,” the man says, and flicks the light-switch.

 

Niall almost faints. The man in the doorway - and he is a man, young-looking though he is - looks awfully familiar. Here in this strange hotel room, with some kind of riot going on outside and the exit instructions on the door in English and Spanish, a suitcase full of clothes that aren’t his and a fancy laptop on the bed that says it’s two thousand and fucking fourteen - this guy is familiar.

 

Niall has seen that face in he mirror every morning for the last sixteen years.

 

The hair is longer, not quite as blonde, and seems to be defying gravity somehow, he’s taller and broader and is wearing the tightest jeans Niall has ever seen, but it’s undoubtedly him.

 

“Holy shit,” Niall Horan says, standing in the doorway.

 

*

 

Niall is exhilarated and completely fucking jetlagged when he gets back to the hotel. 

 

They walked the stage today, even though they won’t be able to soundcheck until tomorrow, but Niall walked down their 100ft catwalk. He stood in the sun and looked out at a stadium where, two days from now, 40,000 people will gather, waiting for him. 

 

For One Direction. 

 

Today he stood in a huddle with his boys and didn’t say a word, because they had none.

 

So far, South America is completely bonkers. They all sat through the security briefing months ago about how things were going to be different this time around, but nothing quite prepares you for a constant police escort and shut-down streets, a physical cordon around the entire hotel. Niall arrived last night with Liam, and there hasn’t been a moment when he hasn’t been within earshot of a screaming fan. Even now, as he walks down the completely deserted hotel corridor - there are some perks to renting out an  _entire fucking hotel_ , and that’s not getting old anytime soon - he can hear the fans outside screaming.

 

He’s exhausted, and by the time he’s shouldering his hotel door open and dropping his bag just inside the door, he’s completely unprepared to find someone else in his room. The lights are off, but it’s obvious there’s someone in the room by the way they startle away from the curtains.

 

“Hello?”

 

Whoever it is doesn’t reply, fidgeting in the half-light coming through the floor-to-ceiling window, and Niall sighs. “I’m calling security,” he says, flicking his phone out of his pocket with one hand to call Preston as he reaches for the light switch with the other.

 

“Holy shit,” Niall says, and drops his phone.

 

There’s a kid standing at the window, and he looks like he’s absolutely bricking it. It’s the terrified expression that gets Niall, makes him shut the door behind him and step further into the room.

 

“Where’d you come from, then?” he asks, still not entirely sure he’s not about to be Punk’d. Louis would think this was hilarious, a kid who looks exactly like he did four years ago appearing in his hotel room. Is he on hidden camera?

 

“Mullingar,” the kid says, familiar vowels and soft consonants, and Niall has to sit down. He gropes for the couch, sinking down into it.

 

“Shit.”

 

“I fell asleep in London, though,” the kid says, accent thick but so very familiar. “Where the feck is this?”

 

“Bogota,” Niall says, feeling faint. “Colombia.”

 

That gets him an eye roll. “I know where  _Bogota_  is.”

 

  
_Fuck, but I used to be **blonde**_ , Niall thinks. Because he knows that hair, remembers looking at it in the mirror after his X-Factor makeover. He recognises those stripy pajama pants and the ratty Derby kit he used to sleep in. Louis may be the prankmaster, but there’s no  _way_  he’s this good.

 

“What’s your name?” Niall asks. He needs to hear it for himself.

 

“What’s yours?” The kid demands.

 

“Niall.”

 

“Niall James Horan, very not pleased to meet ye,” the kid replies.

 

“Shit.”

 

“Feck, but you swear a lot.”

 

“So do you,” Niall replies automatically, and he’s grinning at the kid before he thinks about why the banter is so easy.

 

“What year is it? Your computer says-“

 

“Two thousand and fourteen,” Niall says.

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“Hand to God.”

 

“Shit.”

 

The kid looks like he might cry.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Sixteen,” the kid says, and the jut of his chin is familiar. Niall knows that nervousness, knows it on his own face. Terrified and trying to hide it.

 

“‘M twenty,” he says, kicking his shoes off. He needs a shower. And a beer. Not necessarily in that order. “Hungry?” Niall asks the question before he thinks about it, realising even as he’s lifting the phone to order room service that of course he  _knows_  the answer to his question. He was always hungry, at sixteen, a combination of fast metabolism and puberty.

 

Niall retrieves a beer from the minibar and turns to find the kid -  _younger-him?_  - has finally moved away from the window, and is sitting cross-legged on the bed.

 

“Y’gonna share, then?” 

 

“You’re sixteen,” Niall points out, and younger-him raises an eyebrow.

 

“Yeah,” the kid says. “‘m  _sixteen_.”

 

“Point,” Niall says. He was no stranger to a pint at sixteen. And given the kind of day the kid is having, he probably deserves it. He fetches the kid a beer, and sits back down on the couch.

 

The two of them stare at each other for a moment.

 

“So,” younger him starts, with false lightness, “whatcha doin’ in Bogota, then?”

 

“Touring,” Niall says. Should he be telling himself this? Is he going to do some butterfly-effect-level damage here? Tear a hole in the fabric of the universe?

 

“No shit. Really?” The kid looks like sunshine when he smiles. Wow, he really was cute. “Did we win, then?”

 

That gives Niall a clue as to where -  _when_  - exactly this kid is from. And Niall’s about to crush his X-Factor dreams. He remembers those dreams. Still, he supposes the worldwide phenomena that is One Direction is a good consolation prize.

 

“No,” Niall says, and watches the kid’s face fall instantly. “We’re still on a world tour, though,” he adds quickly. “Four years later.”

 

“So we get signed, release an album and all that?”

 

“Uncle Simon comes through,” Niall says.

 

“Are we like, proper famous?”

 

“Can you not hear the ten bajillion teenage girls outside?”

 

That expression is pure shock. The  _I-thought-I-was-going-home-but-now-I’m-gonna-be-in-a-band_  kind of shock. “That’s for  _us_? I thought there was some kind of riot going on outside."

 

“There usually is,” Niall mutters. Then, louder, “We’ve never been to South America before. It’s a bit bonkers right now.”

 

“How many people are out there?” The kid looks nervous.

 

“Not sure,” Niall says. “They can’t get in, though. There’s a small army out there.”

 

“Can still hear ‘em, though.”

 

“Think this hotel might actually be made of paper.”

 

That gets a grin, and Niall is just about to ask the kid exactly when he’s from when there’s a knock on the door.

 

“Duck out of sight, wouldya?”

 

Younger-him rolls his eyes, but ducks into the bathroom as Niall opens the door and retrieves his room service from a member of security. The man doesn’t remark on the two burgers with extra fries and a side of nachos, so Niall figures they’ve probably met before, but no name comes to mind.

 

“Ta,” he says, and closes the door.

 

Between them, they demolish the food, compare birthmarks (identical) and stories (the same, as far as Niall can tell - a lot’s happened in the last four years), and it isn’t until Niall’s yawning that he realises what time it is. Younger-him settles on the couch with the throw from the end of the bed, and they lie there, listening to the pandemonium going on outside, not speaking. Niall isn’t sure how the hell his younger self time-travelled four years into the future, but he’s hoping the world will have righted itself by the time he wakes, and it’ll all just have been a very strange jetlag hallucination or something.

 

*

 

Little-him isn’t gone in the morning.

 

Niall himself hasn’t slept much, even with his headphones in. It’s barely six when he wakes to see the younger version of himself curled up on the couch, blanket tucked tight around him. He’s wide awake, and he looks miserable.

 

“D’ja sleep any?” Younger-him startles at the sound of his voice, sleep-rough and deep.

 

“Not really. Kept waking up hoping I’d be home.” His voice sounds so small that Niall sighs, and drags himself out of bed to plonk down on the couch beside younger-him.

 

“Maybe we’ve gotta give it twenty-four hours or summat,” he says, doesn’t hesitate in pulling the kid - fuck he used to be  _small_  - into his side.

 

*

 

“D’you think they know I’m gone?” Niall isn’t sure how he feels about the way he’s curling into this older version of himself, as though he belongs there. Assuming this isn’t some sort of fucked-up dream, he grows up in the next four years. Grows bigger, and broader, actual definition in his biceps, 

 

“Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe that’s not how it works? I mean, I don’t remember time-travelling four years into the future.”

 

Niall is immediately struck by the realisation that he’s going to have to start making plans now young-him didn’t just disappear in the night. He can’t stay in the hotel room all day - too big a chance of someone coming in and noticing. He can’t smuggle him out - there’s more security in this hotel than they’ve ever had, and Niall doesn’t like his chances. Even if he did smuggle the kid out, where would he go?

 

Fuck.

 

Niall sighs, and goes looking for his phone. He’s going to have to tell Paul.

 

Fuck.

 

*

 

The older version of him picked up the phone at not-even-six am in the morning, and there’s someone knocking on the door two minutes later. Whoever Niall becomes, it’s obviously someone important.

 

“Right,” older-him says quickly. “That’ll be Paul. He’s our tour manager. Great bloke, gentle giant. Don’t quite know how he’s going to take this, so just bear with, yeah?”

 

Niall’s still stuck on  _tour manager._  Whoever he grows up to be, it’s someone with a tour manager and a fancy hotel room surrounded by fans. In  _South America._  


“Hey,” other-him says, pulling open the door. “Now bear with me, Higgins, I know this is goin’ to knock you for six, but-"

 

“How the hell did you get up here?”

 

The man looking at Niall is Irish, very large, and all dressed in black, a walkie-talkie and two phones and a couple of other things hanging off his cargo pants. He reaches for his walkie.

 

“Don’t-" other him says quickly. “I can explain, Paul, come in-"

 

“How old is this kid, Niall? And how the hell did you get him up here without me knowing?”

 

“He just appeared.”

 

Paul glares. “Pull the other one, Niall. I don’t know-"

 

“Look at him, Paul. A bit fuckin’ familiar, yeah?”

 

Other-him crosses to where Niall stands, so they’re shoulder-to-shoulder and looking at Paul-the-tour-manager.

 

“See the resemblance?”

 

Paul frowns. “Did you fly someone out? Without me knowing?”

 

“ _No_ ,” other-him says. “I didn’t. He just appeared in my hotel room. That’s what I’m trying to tell you, Paul. I know this kid. He’s me. From the past. Like, younger-me.”

 

Paul sighs. “Alright, where’s Tomlinson?” He looks weary. “It’s way too fucking early for this, Niall.”

 

Niall looks down at his feet, bare toes digging into the hotel carpet. He can feel the flush creep up his neck as he swallows around the lump in his throat. He will  _not_  cry. He’s sixteen, for fuck’s sake.

 

Except, he’s also twenty, standing just across the room. Apparently he’s in South America, in the fucking  _future_ , and he has no idea how he’s going to get home.

 

“I’m not fuckin’ with ye,” Older-Niall says. “That’s me. Little me. He knows things, Paul. Things I’ve never told anyone. He has my birthmark. That’s me circa twenty-ten. I don’t know how, but it is.”

 

Paul’s eyes narrow. “Prove it.”

 

“It’s two thousand and ten,” Niall says, thinking hard. “Um - I’m a contestant on the X-Factor, but you probably know that. I have a birthmark on my left leg. High up, near my bollocks.”

 

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Paul says, and Niall raises an eyebrow, because -  _really_? Future-him’s tour manager knows  _that_?

 

Older-him sighs, sitting down on the couch. “How old was I when I had my first snog?”

 

“Twelve,” Niall says promptly. “Behind the bike shed. Mary Therese.”

 

“What colour was her hair?”

 

“Ginger, but she dyed it out. Made it black.”

 

“You’ve probably told that story in an interview, Niall,” Paul says, looking at older-him. "You’re going to have to do better than that."

 

“Harry and Louis are dating,” Niall says.

 

For some reason, Paul laughs at that.

 

“No, really,” Niall says. “We voted, and they’re not allowed to share a bed in our room anymore, because we kept being woken up by them - _doing stuff_."

 

“God, I’d forgotten that,” older-him says. “The two of them in Harry’s single. Didn’t stop them, though. They just moved it to the floor.”

 

Niall wrinkles his nose. “I don’t think we’ve caught them at it yet."

 

“Niall,” Paul says, and stops when they both look at him. He sighs. “You. _Little_ Niall. D’you know who I am?”

 

Older-Niall rolls his eyes. “He’s still on X-Factor, Paul,  _that’s what I’m telling you_.”

 

“No,” Niall says and gives Paul his most charming grin. “I’m sure you’re very nice, though, Mr.Irish-tour-manager-slash-father-figure."

 

“Shit,” Paul says.

 

Older-him looks smug. “Told you.”

 

“How did this even happen?”

 

“I just woke up here,” Niall says. “We hoped I’d wake up back there, but it didn’t work.”

 

“Alright,” Paul says with a sigh. “Do the boys know?”

 

Older-him fixes Paul with a look. “Do you see them about?”

 

“Band breakfast in here, then,” the tour manager decides. “Do you have any -   _immediate_  problems?”

 

*

 

“Well, we need a time machine,” Niall says, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

 

“Apart from that,” Paul says flatly. “Little - uh, younger Niall? Anything you need, right now?”

 

“Um, some jeans? Apparently I turn into a giant in four years. Nothing of his fits proper.”

 

“Some pants, too,” Niall says. “My suitcase isn’t big enough for two of me to live out of.”

 

“Write down your sizes, then,” Paul says, fishing in his cargo pants for a small notebook. “Sizes, please, younger Niall, and I’ll get someone on it straight away.”

 

There’s a pause as younger-him scrawls across the page in a familiar chicken-scratch, his name at the top, followed by a list of numbers. Niall realises with a start that this is a version of him unused to signing his name. He’s only five weeks into the crazy journey that’s become Niall’s life.

 

“Do you need a room? Or are you two staying together?”

 

“Staying together, I think,” Niall says, taking in the deer-in-headlights look his younger version has going on. “I’m a dream to room with, aren’t I, me?” He winks, and younger-him barks out a short laugh as if in spite of himself.

 

“Yeah,” younger-Niall says. “Can’t exactly complain about the pants on the floor if they’re my own, can I?"

 

*

 

Two hours and several rounds of FIFA later, Paul brings a breakfast cart to the door. “The lads are on their way up,” he says. “I don’t know what you’re going to tell them, but I’ll be downstairs if you need me.

 

Niall and his younger self have raided the breakfast cart and are sitting down at his table to tuck in when the door opens.

 

“Rrrooooom service!” A voice sings out, as another breakfast cart comes through the door.

 

“Ugh, Harold, too early,” another voice says.

 

Niall studies the shock on his younger self’s face when he catches sight of first Harry, then Louis. He supposes, objectively, that a longhaired, shirtless Harry and a scruffy, bearded Louis would be quite a shock, especially when he’s used to seeing the twinky fetus versions.

 

  
_“Tattoos,”_  younger-him mouths.

 

“Don’t have any,” Niall says. “Promise.”

 

Louis looks up from the cart at the sound of his voice.

 

“Oooh,” he says, like a kid just discovering a new toy. “What’s this then? Where’d you get a mini-me? Haz, I want a mini-me.”

 

“Mini-who?” Harry asks, not pausing in his fruit selection.

 

“Nialler’s got a mini-him, lookit.” Louis takes a seat next to younger-him. “Hey there, cute South-American-baby-Niall-lookalike. You’re adorable."

 

“Stop being a cunt,” younger-him says, glowering at Louis.

 

Harry and Louis gasp in unison. “That’s awesome,” Louis says. “Make him say something else.”

 

“Feck off,” younger-him adds.

 

“Accent’s a bit off,” Harry says. "Thicker than yours, Nialler."

 

Niall’s too busy being amused to notice the look on younger-him’s face until he says clearly, “I will stab you with my fork."

 

“Bit violent,” Liam says from the doorway.

 

Younger-him gasps. “The feck happened to your  _hair_?”

 

Liam pats his head automatically. “What? What happened?” He seems to decide there’s nothing wrong, and glares at younger-him. “Not funny, baby-Niall-lookalike.”

 

“You all grow up to be assholes,” younger-him says, stabbing at his bacon.

 

“Guys,” Niall says, feeling the need to intervene before there’s actual stabbing of bandmates with forks, “he isn’t a lookalike. He’s me.”

 

“ _Riiiiight_ ,” Harry says.

 

“No, really. He is. Niall James Horan, from Mullingar. All of sixteen, currently an X-Factor contestant.”

 

“You got a baby cousin we don’t know about?” Louis says, studying the two of them, “Because it really is uncanny, Nialler.”

 

“I didn’t like you at bootcamp,” younger-him says, glaring at Louis. “Mainly cause you gave me dirty looks all the time cause you had a major-league crush on Harry and he and I played around with the guitar all the time. Also, you’re not allowed to share the single in our room anymore, although older-me says that means you just move your mutual wankfest to the floor. I hope I get up one night to pee and accidentally tread on your dick.”

 

“Holy shit,” Louis and Liam say in unison.

 

Younger-him scowls. “People keep  _saying that._ "

 

Zayn stumbles in five minutes later, and it takes him two and a half cups of coffee before he realises there’s six people at the breakfast table. “Wait,” he says, looking suspiciously between the two versions of Niall, and the others fall over themselves laughing. 


	2. baby cousin Ni

“This is really exhausting,” Louis says as they’re finishing up their breakfast. “I can’t keep calling you little-Nialler.”

 

“Mini-me?” That’s Liam. “Mini-you?"

 

“No,” Niall and older-him say simultaneously.

 

“We’ll come up with something,” older-him says.

 

There’s a moment of silence.

 

“Just call me Ni,” he decides eventually. “Dunno if you remember, but that year of nursery school when there were three of us called Niall-“

 

“We got nicknamed,” older-him interrupts. “That wasn’t so bad.”

 

“I could just answer to that. If anyone asks, it’s a nickname, cause I look so much like you.”

 

“Baby cousin Ni, from Mullingar,” Harry proclaims with a smile. 

 

There’s something about the future version of Harry that makes Niall -  _Ni,_  now - feel a little funny. It’s - it’s not like they’re all not aware that his wide-eyed, curly Harry is cute. They joke about it all the time, poke fun until he blushes and goes shy. But there’s something about this future Styles, the one with broad shoulders and a taut stomach with too many bloody tattoos, with his floppy long hair and his slow, easy smile. There’s something about all of them, really, even future-him; they’re all just so bloody  _fit._  


He knows his band is attractive, but these boys - these  _men_ , are something else, and it makes Ni uncomfortable. Zayn’s got these  _cheekbones_ , and Liam, sans curly hair, looks like a  _man,_  and Louis is all scruffy and bicep-y, and if he catalogues the differences too long he feels the flush rise in his cheeks, the swoopy feeling in his stomach returning. 

 

*

 

“If you’re gonna be around the boys today, we’ve got to make you less recognisable,” Paul tells younger - tells  _Ni_ , escorting the two of them to Lou’s hotel room. There’s not even security on this floor anymore, except in front of the elevator. They’re really going to lengths to keep Jamie out of sight.

 

“It’s okay,” Paul says, knocking twice on the door before it opens. “She knows."

 

“Lou,” Ni says, looking so relieved Niall thinks he might cry. Right. Lou’s familiar to him. She’s had a baby and changes the shade of her pale hair every other week, but she’s largely the same as she was four years ago. The boys are still the boys, but they’re different now, both in appearance and the fact that they’ve grown up so fucking  _fast_  over the past few years, but Lou was an adult when they met her, and she’s the same person now.

 

“Hey kiddo,” Lou says, and hugs him tightly even though her face is displaying pure shock. He’s still short enough that she can rest her chin on his head and raise her eyebrows at Niall. “How’re you finding the future?”

 

“It sucks."

 

Lou laughs, and leads him into her bathroom, which is all set up with a chair and her products all laid out. There’s barely an inch of counter space left. 

 

Ni watches sullenly as she mixes his “disguise" up in a bowl.

 

“Just a temporary colour, I promise,” Lou says. “It’ll start to wash out in a couple of days. Be gone in fourteen washes. And if you magically pop back to the good old days, I’ll know how to get it out.”

 

The dark brown is pretty much Niall’s natural colour, and he’s seen it on himself before, usually after tour, when he lets it grow out. It’s odd seeing it on Ni, though - himself at sixteen, suddenly brunette and out of place in his pyjamas.

 

*

 

Niall gets out of phone interviews for the day by virtue of having a younger, time-travelling version of himself present. Instead, he stays in his room with the kid they’re now all calling Ni, but he can’t stop thinking of as younger-him.  _Ni_  is decked out in a One Direction crew shirt and jeans that fit - Caroline is a goddess, except she’s so used to dressing the skinny-jeans version of the lads that Niall actually has to teach his embarrassed younger self where to put his dick, which is an experience he’s not forgetting any time soon. 

 

Younger-him spends a good ten minutes exclaiming over the fact that a suitcase worth of clothes (including shiny new suitcase) was  _delivered to your door, how feckin famous are you_. Watching Ni study his reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirror as he tries to decide which pair of brand new sneakers to wear leaves Niall with a strange feeling in his chest. Three weeks before tour, Niall had a styling session with Caroline and they put together his wardrobe. He spent a whole two minutes looking over the shoe selection she’d put together, all of the latest skytops, a few pairs of Converse and Vans. Niall isn’t even sure whether he was actually paying for the things he’d chosen - probably covered in tour overheads, he thinks. When was the last time he got so excited about something so small? 

 

Niall’s glad that spending time with his past self is so effortless - the time travel gods have given him a version of himself only a few weeks into X-Factor, not long enough out of his comfortable Mullingar existence to be questioning himself. Not yet, anyway. Niall’s not sure how long Ni is going to roll with the status quo. He’s just waiting for the moment Ni sits him down and starts interrogating him on every aspect of his life. He knows his own curiosity, knows it’ll show itself once little-him stops being so freaked out by the latest iPhone and fancy hotels and older versions of his bandmates. He’s not quite sure little-him is ready to hear the answer to some of his questions. He certainly wouldn’t have been. Not at sixteen.

 

They fuck around playing FIFA until there’s knocking on the doors all the way down the hall - a thirty-minute warning for lobby call. They have to soundcheck. Niall would probably be bricking himself, about to soundcheck ahead of the start of a  _stadium_  tour, but he’s a little busy being weirded out by a younger version of himself walking around.

 

“Do you really think this is wise?” Paul asks when he meets them at the elevator. 

 

“He’ll stick with Lou, away from the craziness,” Niall says. “Promise.”

 

“I need to get out of the hotel,” Ni says. “I’ll behave. Promise.”

 

Preston eyes Ni curiously. As far as he knows, James “Ni” Horan flew in last night, but Preston’s a smart guy. He’ll know something’s off.

 

Niall can hear the roar of the crowd outside get louder and louder as they get closer to the lobby. “Hey,” he says, catching sight of Ni’s face. “It’s nothing to worry about. Lou’ll be right beside you the whole time. Just keep your head down and keep moving.”

 

They meet the other boys and their main security in the lobby, black SUVs parked right outside. Niall tunes out Preston’s quick instructions, just sandwiches Ni in between himself and Lou and goes where he’s prodded.

 

When the sliding doors open, they’re hit with a wall of noise that is second nature to Niall by now, but completely overwhelming to Ni. He hadn’t experienced anything like it at sixteen, Niall remembers. The first time he was surrounded by a screaming crush of people, he didn’t know the panic attack for what it was. 

 

Ni freezes two steps outside the door. In front of them is a line of cars, and beyond them a line of police holding back the screaming crowd that swells against them when they catch sight of the band.

 

“Hey,” Niall says, voice low and close to the kid’s ear, hand low on his back. “Keep moving, okay? We need to get to the car. The car will get us out of here.”

 

The sixteen year old takes a shaky breath, nods, and they keep moving. Off to the right, Harry and Liam are waving at the fans, and a wall of black-uniformed security moves to block their view of the crowd. Preston opens the door for Ni and folds himself into the driver’s seat. Niall slides across the backseat and Ni follows, still shaky. Niall isn’t entirely sure he’s breathing.

 

Lou turns around in the front seat as they start to move off. “You two okay?"

 

“Hey,” Niall says, scooting over so the two of them are pressed together all down one side. “Ni? I need you to breathe for me, okay?”

 

“C-can’t,” Ni gasps, and underneath the flush on his cheeks, he’s pale and clammy.

 

“Okay,” Niall says easily. He knows these symptoms, but it’s different experiencing it from this side. He’s never talked someone through a panic attack before. Fuck, he hopes he can manage to be as calm as everyone else always is. 

 

“Hey. Niall. I need you to help me.” He lays a hand flat on the skinny chest. “I need you to move my hand for me, okay? We’re going to breathe in now for a two-count, then out. Ready?”

 

Ni manages a nod.

 

“Okay. In - one, two. Out - one, two.”

 

“That’s so good, Ni,” Lou says, voice low and reassuring. “You’re doing so good.” Niall gives her a grateful smile. He’s lost count of the times she’s helped him through the same thing.

 

“And again,” Niall says, and Ni takes a shaky breath. Niall’s hand moves.

 

By the time they’re up to a six-count, Ni is breathing without prompting, but there’s tears rolling down his cheeks. Niall knows this part too; the embarrassment that comes after, because how fucking useless must you be if you can’t even  _breathe_  properly?

 

“You wouldn’t believe how many times that’s happened to me,” Niall says lightly. 

 

“Really?” Ni’s voice is small.

 

“Happens to us all,” Preston says from the driver’s seat, meeting Niall’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. “Nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

Niall gets the feeling there’s a chat with Preston in his near future, but for now he just sits quietly, letting his younger self scrub away his tears as he looks out the window.

 

“This escort is crazy,” Lou says, phone out and taking pictures of the small army surrounding their convoy, as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the car in the last few minutes.

 

“Biggest one yet,” Preston says. “Aaaand venue on our left in three, two-“

 

Niall swears as they round the corner, and El Campin stadium comes into view, enormous even at a distance.

 

“I am a long, long way from home,” Ni says, and Niall shares a grin with his younger self.

 

“Tell me about it,” he says.

 

There’s a ring of fans outside the stadium, but the SUVs are all waved through the security cordon, and soon they’re standing in the giant shadow cast by the stadium.

 

*

 

Ni watches as the five boys - so similar to the ones he’s used to, except so different at the same time - chatter nervously as they make their way up the steps backstage. He and Lou follow at a distance, various staff and security trailing behind. There’s a not insignificant number of steps required to get to stage level, and then they’re wandering out from the wings of the temporary structure, onto the biggest stage Ni has ever seen.

 

The stage is set at one end of a massive stadium, workers building the barricades of floor sections on a pitch surrounded by thousands of tiered seats. It’s a long way from the studio Niall’s barely used to.

 

“Do we - do they play places like this _all_ the time?” Ni feels slightly faint.

 

“Nope,” Lou says, phone out to document the experience. “This is the first stadium tour.” She whistles. "Wow, but that’s big."

 

This twenty year old version of him, with his muscle definition and straight, shiny teeth - this future Niall has screaming fans, enough to fill a bloody  _stadium_ , has a security team and fancy shoes and a bajillion hats, has kissed Katy Perry and probably dates models. Niall suddenly feels so very inadequate in comparison. Even if he does magically get back to his own time, how the hell is he going to end up  _here_  someday? They’ve only been a band four months. The idea of being together four  _years_  and three albums and a stadium tour seems so far away.

 

“Crazy, innit?” Liam sidles up to where Ni’s gazing out at the rows of seating.

 

“I’ve never even seen a place this big before,” Ni admits. “And to think you’re playing  _here_?” He shakes his head.

 

“Terrifying,” Liam finishes with a nervous smile. “And this is one of the  _smallest_  venues on this tour. I never, ever dreamed we could get this far.”

 

“You and me both,” Ni says, and ducks the hand that comes up to ruffle his hair, moving underneath Liam’s arm to catch him about the waist, more instinct than anything else. Except this Liam isn’t seventeen, isn’t as easy to tackle as the one he’s used to.

 

Liam laughs, standing his ground even as Ni tries to push him over, but it’s not until something heavy connects with Ni’s back that Liam even moves. Liam and Ni lie in a heap, the wind knocked out of them.

 

A cheerful voice comes from somewhere between his shoulderblades. “Alright there, Ni?” 

 

“Unf,” Ni says, and Louis rolls off his back.

 

“You looked like you needed some help,” Louis says.

 

“Thanks for that, Tommo,” Liam says, shoving Ni off so he can struggle to his feet. He’s only upright for a split-second before Zayn sends him flying, adding to the pile of limbs in the middle of the stage.

 

Ni feels breathless, but it’s nothing like before in the car - this time his chest feels light, and he can’t stop laughing. He can see Harry taking pictures with a fancy camera, and his older self is wandering around at the end of the catwalk, talking to someone on the phone.

 

Zayn and Liam wrestle around for a bit, and Ni takes the opportunity to escape the carnage while Louis commentates the action.

 

There’s a familiar barking laugh, and Ni turns to see his older self smiling widely at something, laughing with the person on the other end of the phone.

 

“Sickening, isn’t it,” Louis says, dropping an arm over Niall’s shoulders. Here in the future, his sixteen-year-old self is shorter than  _Louis._  


“I think it’s sweet,” Harry says, hooking his chin over Louis’ arm. “He gets all cute and dimple-y when he talks to loverboy."

 

“Wait,” Ni says, as Harry’s words sink in, “Lover _boy_?"

 

Harry’s expression turns panicked. “Shit." 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, sorry, this chapter took forever to write and I kept giving upon it and going to work on other things, sorry. inspiration is back, though, so hopefully it'll be finished soon!

There’s a familiar barking laugh, and Ni turns to see his older self smiling widely at something, laughing with the person on the other end of the phone.

 

“Sickening, isn’t it,” Louis says, dropping an arm over Niall’s shoulders. Here in the future, his sixteen-year-old self is shorter than _Louis._  


“I think it’s sweet,” Harry says, hooking his chin over Louis’ arm. “He gets all cute and dimple-y when he talks to loverboy."

 

“Wait,” Ni says, as Harry’s words sink in, “Lover _boy_?"

 

Harry’s expression turns panicked. “Shit."

 

“Oh my god,” Louis says, swatting at Harry, “you just broke the universe!"

 

“Heeey,” Harry says, slow and sad, like he’s offended, and it’s so familiar that it brings a smile to Ni’s face, even while his brain is racing and he’s thinking  _oh fuck, I didn’t - I’m - I haven’t even told my Da yet -_  


 

“Lads,” a familiar voice says, and older-him wanders over, shoving his phone back in his pocket, “d’you reckon we could have a kick around in the middle?"

 

“Well I probably can,” Louis says, “but you should stay and deal with mini-you’s freakout cause Harry let slip you were yakking to your  _boy_ friend.” 

 

“ _What?”_  older-him looks a bit panicked. “You  _told him_ about Bressie?"

 

Ni’s probably catching flies, the way his jaw’s hanging open slack. “I’m dating  _Bressie_?"

 

“Technically,” Louis says with a grin, “ _you_  told him.” And with that, he scarpers, Harry shooting them both an apologetic look before following.

 

“Bressie,” Ni repeats, and  _feck_ if his voice doesn’t break on the word. “Like,  _Bressie._  Niall Breslin."

 

Niall sighs, runs a hand through hair that’s falling soft and long on his forehead. “C’mon,” he says. “Let’s sit."

 

*

 

Younger-him is looking less freaked out by his surroundings, Niall thinks.  _Ni_ doesn’t seem intimidated by the size of the venue anymore, sitting on the very edge of the catwalk, swinging his legs so his brand new kicks _thump-thump_ against one of the support struts.

 

“Bressie seems… nice,” little-him says eventually, looking at him out of the corner of his eye, while Niall’s still trying to figure out where to start.

 

“He is,” Niall says, and yep, there’s his thinking-about-Bressie-face, he’s sure of it, can feel the unconscious smile.

 

“How’d you - I mean, Bressie lives in London, doesn’t he? Is he like, a rockstar still? His band just broke up."

 

“ _I_ live in London,” Niall says, gentle. “We’ve got a London house and a Dublin city house."

 

“You  _live together_?"

 

“Yeah,” Niall says. Fuck, should he be telling little-him any of this? “That’s pretty new, though. Only a few months."

 

“How long have you two - you know-"

 

“Been together?” Niall asks, coming to his younger self’s rescue. Little-him is proper blushing, now, face fire-engine red. Niall’s a bit better at controlling the flush these days, but not much. “Don’t think I should tell you that."

 

“So ... Da knows?” this question is hesitant.

 

“Of course Da knows. And Mum, too. I can’t say she was thrilled with me dating someone fourteen years older than meself, but Brez is a good bloke - the best. He’s clever and funny and talented and really, really good for me - for  _us_ , and Da’s a pretty good judge of character. He helped Mum come around."

 

There’s a moment of silence after that, and little-him is looking at Niall strangely, as if sizing him up. Niall realises with a start that he’s probably comparing the twenty-fourteen version of himself with what he knows about Bressie. Okay, so there’s a _bit_ of a size difference there still, Niall will admit.

 

“So - was he-“

 

“He wasn’t my first,” Niall says. “God, I wish he was, but he wasn’t.”

 

“Who was?"

 

Niall thinks about it for a second, then says, “Look, I’m not tellin’ ye that. I mean, you’ll probably try to change it, and for all that it wasn’t great, _I_ wouldn’t change it, so you shouldn’t."

 

“What was it like?”

 

“Hurt a bit. Just started to feel really good, like it could be mind-blowing, and it was over.” Niall nudges younger-him. “Got a lot better, though. There’s nothing like it. Never come so hard.”

 

“R-really?”

 

“Nothing quite like being bummed,” Niall says cheerfully, purely to see the blush bloom across those pale cheeks. God he was _cute_. 

 

"So am I - are you - do people know?"

 

Niall feels the smile drop off his face. "No," he says honestly.

 

"Do you have to hide it?"

 

"Yeah, but, not really." Niall exhales in a messy rush. "Look, I'm making a hash of explaining. It's like, we're really feckin' famous now. People follow us everywhere. There are a few places we can sort of go that don't have people who know or care who we are, but for the most part? People know who One Direction are. Fans know Da works at Tesco, go in to get pictures of him behind the meat counter. They know who our family is, want pictures and stuff with them."

 

"Even Greg?" Ni asks, one eyebrow raised.

 

Niall barks out a laugh, short and only a little bitter. He's not looking forward to telling Ni that their older brother is even more of an arse these days. "Even Greg," he confirms.

 

"Weird."

 

"There's so little that's private now," Niall continues. "So it's like - me and Brez, we're keepin' that to ourselves for as long as we can. It's for _us_. Nobody else gets a part of that. It's not like either of us are the snog-in-public type, so we can go out together." He laughs, a genuine one this time. "Usually, people think Bressie's my security." Niall drops his voice to a conspiring whisper, leans in close. "It's the shoulders. He's tall and feckin' _built_ , can just pick me up and hold me against a wall-"

 

"Shut it," Ni says, face flushing again. "I know you're not doing _that_ in public."

 

"Well," Niall says with a wink. "Not _recently_."

 

Ni flops backwards to lie on the stage, feet still dangling over the edge as he groans theatrically and covers his face. "I grow up to be such an arse," he says.

 

"I've a _spectacular_ arse," Niall says, completely unsurprised when his younger self thumps him in the shoulder.

 

Niall grins, looks out on the stadium that'll be their biggest gig to date, and lets himself picture it.


End file.
